Fear is a tangible emotion. I can feel it. I can feel the emotion radiating off of every person I pass, bundled up in wool coats and cotton scarves and manifested desperation. We’re trying to be strong but we’re breaking.

I can see it in their eyes, the eyes that normally look away, never issuing more than a passing glance. I see the heartbreak, the sadness, the empty longing for something better. I feel it as we brush shoulders, a usually aggressive New York minute drained of composure and sulking with depression. Our lines have crossed as our battles seem lost and the city doesn’t feel so lonely.

But the city is worn. Heartbeats are accelerating. Blank expressions are falling uncontrollably into somber emotion. Whatever makes this city full of power seems to have been dismissed. On any other day, the strangers we pass ignite raging fires of passion and determination within us. Today these faces are nothing more than daydreamt outlines of lost hope. Their shapes are sunken, each neutral mouth drooping in submission of something bigger, something foreign. In New York we know sadness. We know loneliness. But this isn’t it. New York does not live here anymore.

The dark skies only add to the weight of the air. I feel it pushing my shoulders closer to the sidewalk as if it wants me to lie down in defeat. I consider. My lungs feel cramped with toxic air, so full of mixed emotion. I’ve never tasted such lethal energy. It seeps into my pores and makes my skin crawl. An unwelcome suppressor has invaded my home and I feel like I’ve been evicted from the place I‘ve come to love.

But I will not lie down. There is a battle to be fought.

New York will go on living. When the sun comes out and the tension lifts, my beautiful city will thrive on its ideals and morals. It will stand together by admitting it must step up and speak its mind. It will embrace each and every individual regardless of race, gender or sexuality. Every person will be spoken for and every person will be loved. It’s hard to imagine in New York, a city far too apathetic for its own good. But this city will come alive with color and light and love because it has no other choice.

We must defend what can rightfully be ours, a city free of oppression. New York is a place that knows how to mend a broken heart, a broken morale, and a broken infrastructure. We will prosper.

But we cannot succeed standing on divided ground. As we enter a new era, we must leave our anger behind and remember the benefits that come along with pure love. We must remember that no one can take away our faith and our ability to care unconditionally about each and every being. We must radiate with joy and compassion and hollow the air of fear by injecting it with warmth, comfort, and acceptance.

Our goals have not been derailed. We still stand strong in what we believe. It may take longer to achieve our ultimate destiny but it will not deter us from reaching unified equality, from perfecting a world where no one lives in fear of harm done by another woman or man. We will hold strong as a country that believes in the power of our voices and unsullied hearts. We will stand together because together we are everything. He is one man. We are millions.

I woke up this morning to the tapping of angled rain on my 5th-floor window, sat up petrified and checked to make sure my windowsill hole was still packed full with steel wool. The light raindrops resemble a sound I know too well, the sound of a rodent living just below the surface of the window’s metal ledge. The scratching, clawing, and occasional squeaking finds a way into every noise I hear. However small, I’m sure the sound belongs to something with a pulse. It’s just as terrifying every time.

Having an unwanted intruder does something to your nerves. Rats, mice, roaches. I spent a while thinking about why the small critters are something most of us fear. I came to the conclusion that the fear stems from an uncontrollable invasion of privacy. I cherish my privacy because I can be vulnerable. In solitude, I can remove the façade I put on each day to face the big, bad city. When the bad of the city enters in unsuspecting moments, it’s incredibly threatening.

Once you’ve had a pest problem you feel it everywhere. As I stand on the train platform waiting for the subway I see rats dancing in and out of the tracks. I feel it. I feel eyes on me. These are their streets. They run wild in the city. There’s nothing I can do about it. I hear something approaching. I feel it behind me. A swish. A hand. He grabs my ass and groans. Pests.

My roommate runs in the front door and slams it behind her. She’s visibly shaking. She explains how she was walking to her Uber when a man grabbed her by the elbows, picked her up, and began carrying her in the other direction. She kicked. She screamed. She elbowed and fought. She ran.

Just another Thursday night at our kitchen table, explaining the unwelcome advances that came upon us that day. It’s a relative of the adrenaline we felt when we both jumped on the same kitchen chair, Swiffer in hand as a makeshift weapon, ready to shoo away the little brown critter running around at our feet. But this time, we both knew the threats were more severe. The mouse was smart enough to avoid our traps but the men are cunning and authoritative.

I can’t say “It makes me uncomfortable when you stand so close to me,” because there’s no one else in the elevator. I can’t say “Please stop looking me up and down and licking your lips,” because my subway stop is three away.

I feel abused when he sits in the seat right next to me, not even attempting to hide the fact that he’s looking me up and down. I fake my confidence because it’s the only repellent, acting as if I could fight him off. But I know that no one in this train car would even look up, just as no one said a word on the platform and how no one, even the police standing ideally by, ran to help my screaming roommate.

I’ve taken self-defense. I know how to use my umbrella as a weapon. I’ve even learned a trick with my eyelash curler. I look at the things in my bag as tools. My headphones can be used to choke him. My keys can be used to gouge his eyes.

But I still don’t understand why my defenses are necessary. What is it about my stance that says “come touch me?” What was it about her position that said, “pick me up and take me with you?” I’m sure as hell not provoking it as I’m standing silently, looking at my phone and waiting for my method of transportation. I am not “asking for it” because I’m wearing a dress in the 90-degree summer heat. I feel as if I should cover my shoulders like I still abide by a high school dress code, but I’m not sure when bare shoulders were assigned as a synonym to “I want you to invade my personal space, stranger.” I could be wearing a t-shirt that says "harass me" and that still doesn't grant you permission to come anywhere near me.

I’m used to the wear and tear of the NY streets. The anger. The passion. But these take on a different meaning when eyes and hands are involved. My anger turns to disgust, genuine and raging. His passion turns to cockiness and unsolicited exploration. My calm demeanor turns to fight mode, but my morale is already defeated.

I had always believed flirtatious nature to be harmless and fun. That was before I was called “bubble butt” and “pretty mama” as I walked to class. It was before my friend fell victim to a date rape drug and I had to help carry her home. Before I felt, at 20, I needed to buy a fake engagement ring to wear to bars because a man will respect another man’s property before he respects my own. Now, I’ve decided I’m better off staying home.

But staying home isn't a foolproof plan. My social media and dating apps can be bombarded with unsolicited messages, crude and cringeworthy in execution. Hiding behind a screen makes the predators feel safe, guarded against a slap back or an "Eff you." It becomes clear in these messages that the perpetrators believe they hold the power, that what they desire is more important than my own emotional deterioration. I never asked for photos. I never asked for poorly executed pick up lines. I didn't ask for anyone to invade my personal accounts, the same as my personal space would have been invaded if I went out for the night.

How is that supposed to shape a generation void of self-love? Women live on a fine line between wanting to impress and needing to divert attention. Showing a little skin may make you feel invincible until you're grabbed in the restroom line. Covering up may make you overheat, and it can't be promised that unwelcome advances will be curved. How is a woman to dress for herself, to truly be who she wants to be, while she must plan with safety in mind? It's nearly impossible to embrace who you are when the basic fact that you are a human being is ignored and attacked.

It’s an epidemic, this greed, so overtaking that a man thinks he can take what he wants from me whenever he wants it. How broken must one be to believe they have absolute control over a stranger and their desires? To hear the word “no” and to simply ignore it? Don’t they have mothers? Have they ever felt love? I try to think of an equivalent but my mind draws a blank. There is truly no comparison to the emotion which follows a predator’s unwarranted harassment. It’s hollow and it makes you feel disappointed in yourself, which is the saddest part.

To my sisters who have been attacked, harassed, abused and raped. To my friends who have been drugged, stalked, catcalled and followed. To the women who are too afraid of men to ever go on a date again. Where do we go from here?

How do we go about saving our dignity, our independence, our ability to be seen as intelligent members of society instead of objects? How do we recover when we are perceived as sex toys by every form of media? Women in positions of power are asked questions about their fashion while men in positions of power are asked about business. Men in positions of power are asked about women, about how they can get them all. About what makes a woman worthy. So can will we be taken seriously? When will I be seen as more than a good pair of legs?

Is there a cure? When we are harassed we can verbalize our distaste, but risk being physically abused. We can call the police but may be ignored and written off as paranoid and emotional. We can stick with our friends and go to the parties, but we know all too well that at least one of us will end up in an uncomfortable situation. So what do we do? I really don’t know.

I’ve come to believe there is no happy ending when a man believes he has control over our actions and bodies. There will be no resolution until we convince the predators they are outnumbered; until the men with good hearts stand up for the women on the train platforms and the women walking to their Ubers. Until the men who hold the power begin to talk about and treat women with unchallenged respect and push movements toward equality. There will be no change until everyone, everywhere, believes it is their duty to stand up for those being attacked, physically, verbally and sexually.

But, until then, I’ll hold my mace in my coat pocket and let my eyes size up those behind me in city window reflections. I’ll climb into bed and hear my wall mouse squeak, call him friend, and feel at home. It’s a kind of invasive I’ve come to accept, knowing that it could be much worse. I may not have made it home to hear him squeak at all.

Hi Everyone,

I have absolutely loved reading your comments and direct messages. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to respond to all of them, but please know I have read your stories, your concerns and your questions. It means the world that my frustrated words have struck a chord with so many.

In my previous post, I explained that panic attacks, while a big part of my personal history, are becoming close to rare in my day to day life (woohoo!) That doesn't mean my anxiety is gone, I've just found a healthy and productive way to cope with it. Many of you have asked for advice, so I decided the best way to reach as many people as possible was to lay out my favorite tricks.

I do feel unqualified to give you heavy advice on things like medication. Everyone is different when it comes to that. But due to so many requests, I thought I would lay out what works for me in terms of natural coping. I just made the move from Chicago to New York City, a time period that could have caused much uneasiness and mental stress, but was able to do it gracefully due to my routines. Hopefully, some of these things will help you personally or will inspire other ideas that work for you.

Find a “safe” environment

Create a place in which you are able to disconnect from the outside world and calm yourself. This can be your bedroom, a coffee shop, a park bench…somewhere you feel you can go to be alone and reconnect with yourself. For me, this is just shutting the door to my room and flipping my phone over so I’m not distracted. Find what works for you. Tell yourself that you are safe where you are. Mental communication is everything. Over time, this place will become a naturally calming force.

Trust your body

It’s important to listen to how you are feeling, believe in your intuition and make decisions based on your best interest. The day I began handling my anxiety and panic well was the day I decided to put my needs before the interests of others. Try to be confident in your ability to control your life. Take it one day at a time. Say no to plans you feel threatened by. It may take time for you to become comfortable trusting yourself, accepting your needs and finding balance. Don’t coddle yourself; push yourself, allow yourself to experience mildly provoking situations and don’t purposely avoid anxiety-including activities. If it gets to be too much, allow yourself to step out, and don’t feel guilty about it.

Try Meditation

Meditating gives your mind time to relax and allows you to disconnect from your physical body. Yoga is also a good option to channel your energy into something physical. Exercise in any form is good for directing your energy into something more productive.

Create a Playlist

I have an incredible relationship with music. It’s something I plan to write about in my future posts. For me, the right music is everything in ANY situation, especially when I need to relax or change my mindset. I’ve linked my go-to playlist here.

Get In Touch With Your Senses

Essential oils and fragrances can be really helpful in calming your body. Look into essential oil diffusers and relaxing scents like Lavender. Sweet Orange is my personal favorite because it has a very happy tone. You can carry oils in your bag and apply them behind your ears for quick relief when out in public. Spray fragrances can have the same effect. My favorite line is Indigo Wild’s Zum spray. The Sea Salt scent is AMAZING.

Again, I’m sorry I am unable to respond to all of your personalized response. I hope this can be of some help in learning where to start when creating a coping routine.

Thank you again for all of the love.

- Kelly

I am so incredibly humbled by the responses I have received in regards to my post “Anxiety Is Not A Valid Excuse.” The amount of strangers and friends who have opened their hearts and told me their stories has been incredibly moving. I feel, based on comments, that I owe a more in-depth explanation.

I have evolved through many different anxiety disorders as I have grown. Now, I’ve settled in an area between anxiety and panic disorder. This means panic attacks can hit me at any time, triggered or random.

I feel it’s important to follow up in respect for others who have tried, or are currently on, medication. I have seen many comments on shared posts saying that it sounds as if my anxiety is not controlled. The concept may be to be confusing to many: I imagine it’s incredibly difficult to comprehend for someone who has not experienced the illness as a whole.

Unfortunately, medication is not a simple, quick fix. It can keep symptoms at bay and act as a cushion, but anxiety and panic are powerful.

The truth is, symptoms rarely just go away. Medication is a tool to help cope, not to dissolve them. I’m sure a day will come when there is a full cure for mental illnesses, but at this point in time, our resources are limited to aiding the function of everyday life and learning to live with the disorders we have been given. Since starting medication I have had a significantly less number of panic attacks and my general anxiety symptoms, like constant nausea, dizziness and low appetite, have disappeared completely. It’s the healthiest I’ve been since my first attack at the age of 12. I am now able, most days, to go to school, work, and efficiently act as a seemingly unaffected member of society. That does not mean my illness is gone, it just means I’ve been able to cope in a healthy and proficient way.

I wrote my original post in the frustration of a full-fledged panic attack, the first I’ve had in a few months. To those who experience attacks as well, no, I have absolutely no idea how I did it. I somehow channeled my energy into writing- I swear it was divine intervention. Panic attacks still happen to me on occasion, but I now am able to handle them gracefully, knowing that I have the resources.

I fought the idea of medication for a very long time, thinking I would be able to cope with the symptoms on my own. And I did for a while. It wasn’t until I began having attacks while driving that I decided to give medication a try. It hasn’t dramatically changed my life. But it has given me the confidence and comfort of knowing I now hold the reigns on my issues. Think of it this way: you may take vitamins to protect yourself from getting a cold, as I take medicine to protect myself from getting an attack. Sometimes, precautionary measures can’t stop you from getting sick.

With this aid, I am confident in my ability to stay a healthy and reliable person, employee and friend. It doesn't mean there aren't days I just need to be alone, to deal with whatever mental chaos is greeting me. It does mean that in an instance of bad anxiety or attack, if need be, I can quickly bring myself back to neutral ground and continue working or acting as I was in a calmer state.

Again, thank you so much to everyone who has shared and responded to my post. I have been so incredibly honored to hear your stories and receive your messages. I am so sorry for all of you who can relate to it, but I hope knowing there are hundreds of thousands of others relating as well has comforted you as much as it has comforted me. We are not our mental illnesses. We are simply people succeeding at fighting something that many still do not understand. Thank you for helping me spread the word and acknowledging how real mental illness is.

Anxiety is an invalid excuse. I just got back to my room after a failed attempt to go to class. I’m sitting here, writing this, trying to think of something to email my professor to sugarcoat what I’m feeling, to really drive home the point that class today was unbearable for me. You see if it was the flu or a bad head cold this would be easy. I would simply relay the symptoms and be excused with a general “feel better” and a hidden relief that I wouldn’t be getting anyone else sick. To send an email saying I just had to take a breather on a 4th Ave. step because my lungs felt as if they were collapsing and my body was shaking so badly I could hardly walk doesn’t do the trick.

Anxiety is an invalid excuse. I was supposed to go out to dinner with my friends a few nights ago but couldn’t get myself out of bed due to some unwelcomed existential dread about nothing in particular. No, it wasn’t something my horoscope said. It wasn’t something I was anticipating in the upcoming week. I wasn’t “nervous.” I was simply incapable. “But it’ll be fun,” they said. “You never go out with us.”

Anxiety is an invalid excuse. I fear having to tell people I’m on medication because the second I do, I see my fears written across their faces. The fact that I have to take a dose of something with an unpronounceable name twice a day just to make me feel like I’m residing on some middle ground that makes me capable of mandatory human function immediately sets off alarms that I am a lesser person, lacking independence and radiating unpredictability. All of a sudden I’m the crazy, mentally unstable girl completely incompetent and incapabe of any mundane task in front of me. I don’t even dream of revealing I have a Xanax in my bag in case of emergency, because the one time I mentioned it, the faces of my friends were the same as I’d expect if they saw me shooting up heroin in the bathroom of the bar.

Anxiety is an invalid excuse. In the eyes of others, it makes me a liar. Lazy. Inadequate. Delusional. Crazy. I can’t say I have a diagnosis because everyone I tell is conditioned to think I’m either a deranged psychopath or I’m faking it because I’m simply too fragile to face life like a normal person; underwhelming unable to walk through a typical routine without having an upper to keep me stable. Do they think I pity myself so much to induce a self-hatred strong enough to keep myself so far from mental catharsis? Do they think I find this fun?

Anxiety is an invalid excuse. I’ve begun to believe it myself. Every time I feel my chest get heavy, my hands get sweaty, my vision become disconnected, I tell myself to suck it up: that it’s all in my head. Maybe it is. That’s certainly where it lives. But tell that to my body when I’m locked in my room, unable to move or think or breathe. Tell that to my ears that simply decide to stop hearing and scream with hollow ringing that disorients me to the point of defeat. Tell that to the girl who has sat on grimy floors in restaurant bathrooms and called for cabs with no goodbye because, for a few moments, she can’t remember how to exist.

Anxiety is an invalid excuse. They say there’s a science behind it. That it’s just how I work. They say it’s a sickness, real as cancer. But how am I supposed to believe it when I can’t convince myself it’s not self-induced? How am I supposed to survive an illness I’m not convinced even exists? How am I supposed to love my mind if I constantly doubt its ability to decipher reality from fiction?

Anxiety is an invalid excuse. I know this because my school only allows three absences per semester. My only saving grace is that the school psychiatrist believes me. I’ve officially been categorized, embossed, labeled with the word “disabled.” I feel like a sick scam. Who am I to say I’m hindered when there’s nothing visibly wrong with me: when some days I function at 110 percent and nothing can hold me back. I feel like a disrespectful fool calling myself disabled when I have a condition so loosely defined, so casual. I have no right to categorize myself as someone with real life problems. There are many who have it much worse than me. And because my vices cannot be seen from the surface they’re perceived as fake. It’s a bittersweet sentiment knowing my flaws are beautifully misunderstood in a way that allows me to pretend they don’t exist while someone is watching. I thrive in the precious moments I spend being normal. I cripple in the instances I must try to explain the place I’m coming from, the place no one will ever truly understand until they feel their heart stop beating in their chest only to accelerate far past a normal rhythm, blood rushing to their head until the whole world fades away to a crystallized screen of silent white. I’m sure the letter sent to each of my teachers makes them think I’m just a student with low self-esteem who whines and pouts my way through life, looking for shallow excuses to half-ass my work. But I want to succeed. I want to live. To live comfortably. That's my dream.

Anxiety is an invalid excuse because I can’t convince myself I’m not insane. I can’t get over the possibility that every trigger, every panic, is rooted deep in my overactive imagination who happens to be a spiteful little bitch that likes to see me squirm. It’s in the calm moments I feel it most. When I’m finally content and that sharp jab of terror hits the sweet spot in the middle of my throat, closing in until I’m choking on invisible tribulations. It’s so vivid I can see the muscles contracting, turning purple as I fear…what? What is it that I fear? It’s the imaginary evils that sneak up and get me in the moments I least expect it. It’s the seconds of doubt that turn into gut-wrenching reservations and claustrophobic convulsing that drive me right back under my sheets until a glimmer of light breaks through the stitching. It’s the darkest days and the brightest nights because sleep is the only time I can fully escape it.

Anxiety is an invalid excuse. So I refuse to let myself give in to the impulses. I’m a fighter. I hate the guilt I feel every time I have to step out of a room, find the little, hidden stash of pills in my purse and sneak one out of view of anyone I know. I don’t know how anyone enjoys that high. It makes me sad, the lowest I’ve ever felt, feeling incapable of performing in my day-to-day life without an artificial aid. But I’ve come to terms with the idea that sometimes there is no other option. I hope one day I’ll be okay with that.

Read my follow up on medication here and my tips for coping with anxiety here.